She was escorted to a delightful pink-and-gold drawing room, where Kade and Eigaze sat by a cheerfully crackling fire, cheerfully sipping scalding green tea from exquisite porcelain cups and nibbling tiny sandwiches. Inos collapsed into a very soft chair and stared at them in disbelief.
“A slice of lemon, dear?” said Kade. “Do have something to eat. Try the cucumber ones. Do you suppose the cucumber is occult at this time of year?”
“Imported from Pithmot, I expect,” Eigaze said, “but I still think the fresh, local ones have more flavor.”
Rap! Come and rescue me from these maniacs! “No cucumber for me,” Inos said. “It makes my nose shiny.”
Eigaze switched targets in midreach and went for the watercress instead.
“Well, do eat something, dear,” Kade said. “We may have a long night ahead of us.”
Inos gulped the hot tea gratefully. “Tell me!”
Kade beamed. “The wardens! His Highness has decided to invoke the Four, and we are to visit Emine’s Rotunda and attend! Isn’t it exciting?”
“And so rare!” Eigaze exclaimed. “Outsiders are very rarely admitted when the Four are called. You are greatly honored.”
“We are to be fitted for our gowns very shortly!”
Honored? Exciting? Inos drained her cup. Rap! Quickly!
3
Kade was squeezing Inos’s hand very tightly. But then Inos was squeezing her, also, as they walked together through the gloom.
Emine’s Rotunda might not be as large overall as the Great Hall in Arakkaran, but it was certainly large enough to humble anyone, and no internal pillars marred its wide expanse. Whether the fabled Emine had ever set eyes on it was unknown — it was old beyond record. Tradition said that sorcery had built it; only sorcery could have preserved it since the shadowy dawn times of the Impire. It smelled old. It was filled with curious little echoes and dark whisperings. Somewhere overhead was the famous dome, with its soaring stone ribs and crystal windows, but on a rainy night like this there was nothing to be seen up there but impenetrable blackness.
In the center stood a forest of giant candelabra, each one twice the height of a man, branched like a golden tree with blossoms of fire and fruits of crystal. Inos wondered how many servants had taken how long to light so many hundred candles. Yet each gold tree stood on its own plot of brightness, with shadow seeping in between them — the Rotunda was just too big to illuminate properly. Beyond the enchanted glade the darkness lurked unharmed. The banked seating around the walls was barely visible, still and empty, and the roof remained a mystery. Whatever drama was to be played, this was quite the creepiest setting Inos had ever seen; Rasha’s dome in Arakkaran had been a country kitchen by comparison.
When she arrived with Kade, half a dozen men were already present, wearing military uniforms or crisp white togas. Others came drifting in behind her, and a couple wearing red togas were necessarily senators. Another sported a purple border and would be one of the consuls. They stood in groups, muttering together in low voices — she had already noticed that all the imps in Hub, even the oldest, held themselves in stiff-backed soldier style. She did not recognize any of them, but she caught some glancing in her direction.
She would have felt slighted had they not. She and Kade had been hastily fitted out with white chitons. They felt like costumes for a masquerade ball — probably because, like togas, they were garments normally seen only on statues or in historical lithographs. The folds clung to her body, and her arms were bare. Chitons were not unlike nightgowns, and whereas Kade’s was woolen, warm, and matronly, hers was sheer enough to be unpleasant on this damp, cool evening. Men had just better look!
Two women entered wearing red chitons. They were both elderly, of course. More men in uniform: proconsuls, and a tribune.
She noticed a newcomer staring at her, a man in an especially impressive uniform. His breastplate was inlaid with gold, and the horsehair crest on his helmet was scarlet. She thought back to a lecture that Proconsul Yggingi had given her once at Kinvale, and decided that this must be the marshal of the armies. She could not recall his name, but it was short … Ishy, maybe? … something like that. He looked tough, but not unpleasant. She turned her gaze elsewhere so he could admire her profile also.
She found herself staring at the Opal Throne.
Of course all this playacting and the whole great building — everything was designed to draw attention to one spot, the center. Unconsciously she had been fighting back, perversely refusing to look where she was supposed to look. Like a rabbit ignoring a snake, in the hope that it would just go away.
The heart of power. It was a wide and ugly thing in itself, squatting on a two-step circular dais and lit by two candelabra of its own. This was the imperor’s chair, the seat of power, the hub of Hub, the navel of the world. She assumed that by day it flamed brightly. Under the candles it was mostly black, glowing here and there with baleful embers, crawling hints of blood and gold, grass and sky; restless stains of ancient evils. She thought of a dreaming dragon asleep on a hoard of candlelight.
From that potent center radiated four points of color, inset in the gray granite of the floor. The four-point star, symbol of the realm. Each triangle stretched out into the encircling darkness — yellow, white, red, and blue. Where each would narrow to nothing stood another throne on a single-step dais. Those must be the thrones of the wardens, and each had a single candelabrum right behind it, shedding its own isolated puddle of light.
The Opal Throne was facing toward one that Inos recognized, in a stunning flash of memory. It glittered gold below the many fires of its candelabrum. She knew who would sit there.
Despite her cynical desire to scorn such theatricals, she was impressed. A large part of the history that packed so many books in her father’s library had been brewed right here, in this great antique chamber, on these five thrones. Oceans of blood had flowed from this spring. The chill and damp were raising chickenflesh on her arms, but the awesome scent of raw power was certainly helping.
Suddenly Azak came striding in, taller than anyone, and accompanied by the tiny form of Senator Epoxague. They were an ill-assorted couple, both clad in togas, one white, one red. Surely Azak had never worn such an absurd garment before, or ever dreamed of doing so, and yet she could not help but note how good he looked in it. His bare right forearm was ropy with muscle, and his hair was burnished copper and gold in the candlelight. At his side, the old senator seemed frail and scrawny, almost pitiful. Poor man! He had risked his career for her, and might be going to pay a heavy price for that kindness.
Azak had seen her, and came to her, looking her over carefully — especially her chin and her newly healed cheeks.
“You are well, my love?”
“I am, sir.”
He frowned at that, and then looked to Kade. “And you, ma’am?”
Kade bobbed a small curtsy. “Very well, your Majesty.”
“I have not yet heard how you departed from Arakkaran, nor how you brought Master Rap with you.”
Kade flaunted her daftest simper. “The regent himself asked me the same question. I explained that I had obligations to others that prevented me from answering that.”
Trust Kade to defy even Ythbane!
And Azak, also! The giant flushed angrily, but he did not pursue the matter. Here he was a guest, not a despot.
“We are very grateful to your Eminence,” Inos told the senator.
He smiled wryly. “Imps regard family ties as important, Inos.”
“I shall never forget,” she said.
He sighed. “It was unfortunate that we did not manage to stop the duel. I fear much trouble will flow from that.”
Just then Kalkor himself came stalking in, accompanied by Ambassador Krushjor. Their jotunnish garb of leather breeches and boots was a defiance of the cold; their pale hair shone gold under iron helmets. They glanced around contemptuously and then chose a location where they would see all five thrones, as everyone else h
ad done.
At their heels, as if in attendance on them, came the young goblin, and now he also was wearing jotunn garb, his skin shining much more obviously green under the candles. No one would ever suggest putting a goblin in a toga, and he was not a diplomat who could sport his own ethnic costume. Goblins’ ethnic costume was likely even less respectable than jotnar’s.
In a moment Little Chicken noticed Inos, and his angular eyes widened slightly. Then he grinned toothily at her. She very much wanted to have a chat with that young man, to learn why he now consorted with jotnar, and how he and Rap had escaped from Inisso’s chamber. But to go near Kalkor would be to beg for trouble. It would also provoke Azak into a foaming fit.
From time to time Inos recited to herself a little speech she had composed, explaining how her marriage was not valid and she now wished to have it annulled. The logic had seemed quite convincing at first. It felt frailer near Azak, somehow.
A quartet of bearers brought in the old imperor, laying his chair beside the central dais. Oh, that poor old man! Why could they not let him die in peace? The bearers departed.
That would seem to be everyone, Inos thought.
She was right — in the distance a door thudded closed, and a moment later Ythbane strode in from the darkness, heading for the Opal Throne. He wore a purple toga, but there was a small bronze shield on his arm, and he carried a short sword in his right hand. Behind him hurried the spindly little prince, looking both cute and pathetic in his toga. He stared straight ahead, ignoring everyone. His mother was not present.
The regent mounted the two steps to his throne and turned to look over the company. The prince went up one step and then around to the right of the throne. He turned also, and then seemed to freeze, like a statue.
The kid ought to be in bed, Inos thought angrily. Didn’t the Impire know how to look after its future rulers?
“Sultan Azak!” Ythbane proclaimed. “Are you prepared to present your petition to the four wardens, occult preservers of justice within all Pandemia?”
“I am.” Azak’s voice was deeper, and harsher.
“Then we invoke the Council of Four on your behalf, as is our ancient right and obligation.” Ythbane raised his sword, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the gold throne.
Clank!
Well! Inos doubted that even a warlock could hear that silly little noise all the way from the Gold Palace.
For a moment nothing happened. No one seemed to breath. The Gold Throne remained empty below its shimmering candelabrum.
Then the flames in that golden tree shrank and died, and went out. The throne faded away into the darkness, still empty.
The spectators looked back to Ythbane. His mouth hung open, and even the prince below him was showing a similar astonishment.
Obviously the regent was at a loss. His eyes sought out a couple of the senators, as if seeking guidance. If the Right of Appeal had not been exercised for a hundred years, no one would be an authority on procedures. Had someone forgotten something?
Setting his jaw, Ythbane strode around to his left, so that he faced the Blue Throne, the seat of Warlock Lith’rian. He raised the sword again. Before he could use it, the same invisible fingers snuffed those candles also, and the Blue Throne vanished away into the night.
The wardens were rejecting his call.
Inos peered around: Azak, darkly furious … the regent even more so … the dumbfounded audience … Kalkor showing all his teeth and enjoying the drama … the little prince wide-eyed … Or was the kid trying to stifle a smirk?
Before the regent could move, the candles over the White Throne of the north throne glimmered and died also.
“Too bad!” a heavy, sepulchral voice said.
The Red Throne of the west remained lit, an ugly monstrosity of granite carved in bas-relief. There was a boy sitting on it.
The regent went around to the back of the Opal Throne and bowed. “Your Omnipotence does me honor.”
“I don’t mean to.”
Not a boy — a young man. One day at Kinvale, Andor had taken Inos to visit the duke’s slate quarry. The dwarves she had seen there had all been very short, with massive shoulders and heads, and complexions like gray sandstone. Despite his youth, Zinixo’s hair was iron gray. He must be shorter even than the goblin, Little Chicken, for his feet looked as if they did not quite reach down to the floor. Although his thick forearms rested on the sides of the throne, the position was awkward for him, hunching his shoulders up near his ears. His toga was the mysterious dark red of iron cooling on a smith’s anvil. He seemed to be wearing no tunic below it, for his right arm and shoulder were bare; so were his overlarge feet.
He bared a mouthful of teeth like white pebbles. “You’re too early, Regent. Too impatient! Try us —“ The grating voice stopped, and he cocked his big head, as if listening to something. His eyes were restless, furtive. Inos remembered what Epoxague had said about dwarves being cagey and distrustful. They were also reputed to be mean-spirited and avaricious.
Either the little prince could no longer bear not being able to see the warlock, or else he decided that he should not have his back to him. Whatever his reason, he spun around to face the other way and then went very still again.
Zinixo apparently decided that there was nothing amiss and resumed his smirk. “Try us again tomorrow, mongrel.”
A sorcerer insulting a mundane that way was rather like a boy torturing an insect. Maybe Olybino was not so bad as Inos had thought.
Ythbane flinched at the gibe, but his voice stayed level. “You will hear the sultan’s petition then?”
The dwarf laughed with a sound like millstones. “No! He won’t trouble us. But there will be other problems. In fact, you weren’t even going to ask the right question tonight.”
Ythbane had his back to the watchers, but that taunt made him stiffen visibly. “What should we have been going to ask, your Omnipotence?”
The warlock glanced over the company and then pointed a finger in a gesture that would have poked a hole in an oak door. “Ask him!”
The candles above him flickered out simultaneously and both he and the throne vanished. The throne was still there, though, in the shadows. The dwarf was not.
Everyone was looking where he had pointed. But which one had he meant? One of the two jotnar, or the goblin?
4
Inos awoke as the door opened. She was magically, instantly awake, with her eyes wide to the darkness, knowing that she had been asleep for some hours. A faint gleam from the window showed the dim shape of the intruder. The door closed without a click, but she had already recognized the familiar woolly-blanket feeling of a calming spell on her mind.
“Inos?” the expected whisper said.
“Hello, Rap.”
She thought of Azak, waking to find Rap in their bedroom …
“The sultan won’t waken,” Rap said, dropping the whisper but keeping his voice soft. “You won’t scream or anything if I —”
“No. There’s a housecoat somewhere, if you can find it.”
He must have removed the spell at once, because her heart started to pound with excitement. She felt him toss the gown on the bed for her. She sat up, realizing that sorcerers could see in the dark; in fact, they could probably see through dwarvish chain mail, so the coat would make no real difference to him. The ritual would make her feel better, though, and it dispelled any last, lingering doubt that this was the genuine Rap.
She climbed out of bed and wrapped herself, shivering slightly with excitement. A faint glow sprang up in a lantern on the mantel. Rap was by the window with his back to her. He turned around, and they gazed at each other across the width of the room.
The bedchamber was grand enough by most folk’s standards, but it was definitely not what a palace should offer a visiting king. The furniture was an odd assortment, the wall frescoes were peeling and faded, and an old-fashioned fustiness suggested everything had been inadvertently left behind by the previous dynast
y. Such pettiness might be intended to show Ythbane’s anger at the humiliation Azak had brought him, or perhaps it represented some household flunky’s contempt for djinns. Who cared?
The bed had been big enough, and that had been all that mattered. On the far side of a protective bolster, Sultan Azak slept soundly.
She raised a hand to her face. “Thank you for this, Rap.”
He shrugged. “It was easy. Bones take time, but skin is easy.”
“Thank you anyway.”
He was still wearing very plain workman’s clothes, and they were wet. His hair was soaked, although even that wouldn’t make it lie down completely. Rap had always had very stubborn hair. He spoke first, smiling sadly at her.
“Magic can make you as you were, but even sorcery could never make you any more beautiful.”
Well! That was new! And he wasn’t even blushing as he said it.
“Thank you for that, also, kind sir. You are a sight for sore eyes yourself.” She sat on the edge of the bed, glancing across at Azak. He had one brawny arm outside the covers, and his hair was a red puddle on the pillow. No, he was not going to waken.
Rap was staring at Azak also, squinting in an odd way. “I can’t do anything about his curse, I’m afraid. I can sort of see it, though.”
Inos was in no immediate hurry to have Azak relieved of his curse, but to say so at the moment would not be in the best of taste. “See it? What does a curse look like?”
Rap scratched his head. “Hard to describe. Like there’s a glass cloth on him, a fuzziness. It kind of shimmers … I can’t put it into words. I wouldn’t know what it did if your aunt hadn’t told me, but I’d know he had a sorcery on him.”
“Rap, sit down! I want to hear all about your adventures, and how you escaped from the tower, and how you met the dragon, and —”
“Your aunt can tell you all that. We may not have time for it right now. It wasn’t easy — finding you.” He glanced around; she suppressed the unnerving thought that he was looking through the walls and ceiling instead of at them. “There’s a big dark blank over the palace. A silence. What I mean is, no one else’s using magic in it. I don’t want to give myself away to the wardens.”
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